


Fly Boys

by knotted_rose



Category: Jericho (US 2006), Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-01
Updated: 2008-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knotted_rose/pseuds/knotted_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter what else fly boys may have, they always want the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly Boys

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on my LJ, 1 December 2008. No real spoilers, just some of what Jake did during the five years he was away from Jericho.

Jake loved to fly. No, really. He loved to _fly._ From crop dusters to the highly classified only-rumored-to-exist-except-Jake-flew-one U-3s. It wasn't for the power trip most pilots seemed to be on. He didn't want to be god, he wasn't trying to get close to god, or even compete with god (he'd leave that up to his Dad and his brother, the dad-wanna-be, thank you very much.) No, Jake loved the open air, being up in sky so blue and pure you could taste it through your oxygen flow. Threading between cold, thin clouds, leaving them behind like trails of glory. Screaming down toward the ground, so different from up there, the brown and green looking brittle and spoiled, like fruit left too long on a market stall.

When Jake got back home, he was sticking with gliders, small planes, and anything that let him get closer to the heavens. Because while he loved the engines and all the minutia of weather, winds, and significant landmark, what he really loved was to fly.

##

Jake had a love/hate relationship with his job. Or maybe it was more hate/hate/love, because he loved less than half of it. He hated the war. Hated the bombed out cities, the starving children, the swaggering militants. Hated the food, the heat, the stupid fucking uniform they insisted he wear. Hated the people he worked with, well, except for Freddie, but he only liked him some days.

However, Jake loved flying here, in Afghanistan. The blue of the sky was so deep it sometimes felt like he was swimming through it. The mountains were amazing, particularly for a boy from Kansas. The earth didn't look so dried out from up there, in the places that hadn't been shelled to hell.

The Company shared an airport with the military outside of Herat, two "terminals" each. The groups of pilots were under strict orders not to mingle. Jake was never that good with orders though. Besides, the military's side had the best view of the mountains from the sweltering heat of the tiny officers' room. He'd sit with his legs up on the window sill, drinking in the pale ground of the mountain, shooting up into that blue, blue sky. After the first couple of run ins, the military guys would just tell him to move, not wanting to risk the embarrassment that came with his beating their asses. He might not be trained, but he was meaner than most of them. He didn't fight to get into fights. He fought to do as much damage as possible in the shortest amount of time.

Jake didn't look over when a military man sat down next to him, swinging his legs up on the sill as well. "Pretty," was the only comment he got, followed by silence. That made him look. No one else understood, either why he sat there or the quiet he craved.

The slouch the man had was perfection itself. He'd never seen a military man, well, _bend_ so. The smirk he'd seen before, arrogance and control -- another fly boy. But his eyes didn't meet Jake's -- instead he kept his gaze out the window, toward the sky.

"Yeah," Jake breathed out, looking back up. The silence, and their steady hunger for that blue, said all they needed to say to each other.

##

Jake started making more of a habit of going to Herat, finding the officer's side, sitting and waiting. The other fly boy showed up a few times. They didn't exchange names or pleasantries, just silence and the sky.

One of the officers, Major Asshole, who'd given Jake trouble before, came up while he shared a bit of quiet with the fly boy. "Whatcha doing here, son?" he asked, his voice a deep growl, raising the hackles along Jake's neck.

"He's with me," came an equally menacing response.

Jake looked over at the fly boy. The slouch was still there, still relaxed and surprisingly twisted for a military man. His gaze was still focused on the window. But his mouth was no longer at peace. It had hardened into a straight line that looked tough enough to spit concrete.

"Friend of yours, eh?"

The silence grew fangs and glittering, piercing red eyes. Jake kept his hands folded over his stomach, trying to appear calm, but already calculating which spot he could hit the Major Asshole to his right that would do the most pain.

"Should have known," the Major said before turning and stomping away.

After taking a deep breath, the silence growing softer again, Jake held out his hand.

"Jake."

"John."

They held that handshake for longer than most would, their eyes meeting and locking. Jake had always thought the fly boy's -- John's -- eyes would be blue, but they weren't: they were hazel, like the best of the earth, brown fertile fields and spring crops. John seemed to be searching for something similar in his eyes. Finally, the smirk returned.

"Yeah," John said as he let go of Jake's hand and returned to looking out the window. "Just say you're with me."

That didn't end Jake's troubles with the officers, but they stopped happening so frequently.

##

"Beer?"

Jake grinned and shrugged. "Fine by me. Or the closest equivalent," as they didn't usually get beer up there, but moonshine.

John led the way. Jake followed.

##

While the fixtures could have been from some C-grade movie set, the reality wasn't. It stank of piss and camels, too many men gone too long without bathing, rancid grease and spoiled food. The table top had a layer of grime that nothing short of burning would cleanse. The cushion on the wood seat had bed bugs or something, and Jake followed John's example of throwing it to the floor. Dogs -- barely tame mongrels -- immediately came up to sniff them, to see if they'd thrown food. When one started licking Jake's pillow he wondered what the hell he'd sat in. John's laugh startled him.

"Might just have been you," he smirked.

Jake wasn't the blushing kin, but John's comment put him much closer to the edge than he'd like to acknowledge. "Yeah, right."

A greasy man with many rings covering his fingers and a dirty head scarf dropped two smeared glasses on the table, followed by an unlabeled bottle. Jake had never been here, but obviously John had been here often enough to be a regular.

The liquid John poured out was clear -- the good moonshine, capable of lighting fires with, not the cloudy stuff that was likely to blind you. It still packed as much of a punch as the first stuff Jake had ever tried, at his grandfather's behest.

He cleared his throat and blinked his eyes, chasing away the stinging. He heard John drawl beside him, "See? I always bring you to the finest places."

Jake chuckled and grinned, clinking glasses and sitting back. "That you do."

##

They chatted then, the liquor loosening their tongues. Jake had the impression that John generally talked about as much as he did -- which wasn't much. They talked a little of home, but mainly of flying, of machines and weather, of temperamental mechanics and sticky gears. Jake had rarely met another pilot who loved to fly like he did.

They ran out of words about mid-way through the afternoon, both lost in memories of blue skies and cutting winds. But it didn't matter, the silence was as comfortable as always, even when John caught Jake's eye, even when they both stared a little too long, neither jumping when their legs touched under the table, knees pressed together saying more than words could.

##

There was no place other than the airport for them to go, no place safe for more than hurried kisses and hand jobs, John stroking Jake's dick like a sidestick, controlling his pleasure though a tight grip and expert handling. They knew better than to ask when or where. Because while the sex was good, and a little like flying, neither of them would risk actually being able to go up in the air.

##

Though Jake liked being with John, either watching the sky, or helping each other reach it, he loved the afterward, when John's slouch became even more pronounced, when he grinned like the goof he was, when his eyes lost the haunted look that usually followed his missions. Jake didn't know what John saw in him but he imagined it was the same things, the ways the walls came down and they could just be for a while, a breath or three, before the uniforms and the images they worked so hard to maintain came back on and were firmly back in place. Then John would slouch out the door and Jake, hands in his pockets and with his own insolent slouch, would follow him, as always.

##

Jake didn't know what exactly John had done, but he had the impression it had been stupid and loyal, like John. He didn't have the heart to fight Major Asshole and his three companion goons when they kicked him out of the officer's lounge, this time for good. He didn't have the heart for much of anything then, and after one last trip to the horrible greasy spoon that they'd first gone to and too much moonshine he agreed to go to Iraq. Not to look for John. But because he didn't have anything else to look forward to. All that blue turned to black. No one to follow anymore, in and out of supply closets and questionable bars.

##

It was after Iraq, after Jake was back in the States, that the package caught up with him. It was a single dog tag with John's name and unit on it. Jake had thought he'd been flying far below the radar. But some special unit that John now worked for -- SGA? -- had found him.

The tag lay cold in Jake's palm. The note only said, "Heading out. Find your own skies." And Jake knew that John was doing another loyal and stupid thing, and that he'd never see him again.

He slipped one of his tags off, slipped John's on. The weight of it reminded him of what it had been like to fly.

{end}


End file.
